Almost Murder on the Orient Express
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly goes on her honeymoon, even though she has dumped Tom. Guess who accompanies her? Sherlolly


"Molly, you seem to be doing an awful lot of organizing this afternoon." Sherlock Holmes had been observing his pathologist, Dr. Molly Hooper scurry about, filing, doing inventory, cleaning, and generally bringing her lab up to a standard which would exceed her exacting criteria.

"I just want to make everything runs smoothly while I'm away, Sherlock."

"Ah, yes, the honeymoon. I will never understand why you didn't cancel the sex holiday when you cancelled the wedding. I would have made more sense."

"Sherlock, I've told you before. I've always wanted to go on the Orient Express. It seems so romantic…"

"Perhaps for a sex holiday, but not without a partner, Molly! Or are you planning to indulge with 'meat dagger's ' substitute. What's her name? Meena?"

"Meena changed her mind, so it's just me. The tickets have been paid for for a long time, and cancelling would cost me a fortune at this late date."

"It's costing you a fortune to go, Molly!"

"But it's something I want to do. Something I have always wanted to do. So I'm going. No more trying to talk me out of it!"

"Well, if Meena has backed out, I'll go with you. I shall, of course, reimburse you for my share of the expenses. I have never travelled on that particular train, and I admit I am curious, especially given that I an Agatha Christie fan."

Molly looked at him in disbelief. This was definitely not the way she had dreamed about going on a honeymoon, or a sex holiday, as he referred to it, with Sherlock Holmes. The Orient Express, the most romantic train trip in the world, a week in Venice, and the train home again. The supreme romantic getaway. With Tom, alias "meat dagger", it would have been wonderful. With Sherlock Holmes...well, Molly was not sure there was even a word to describe it! But to take that trip as an expense sharing platonic companion was certainly not what she had envisaged. So, it was with some surprise, and trepidation, that she found herself saying, "Okay."

Sherlock called for Molly in a cab the following morning, and they hurried to Victoria Station to catch the train. A porter made short work of their luggage, and helped them to board. They were led to their cabin, set up as a private lounge during the day. After freshening up, they made their way to the restaurant car to enjoy brunch as the train wended its way through the countryside of Kent.

"Sherlock, you've got to eat. You're not on a case now." Molly was indulging enthusiastically in the excellent cuisine offered on board. "Stop studying the other passengers, and eat."

"You do realize, Dr. Hooper, that close to half of our fellow passengers are newly married couples."

"That's not surprising, Sherlock. This is supposed to be a very romantic trip! That's why I chose it."

"How romantic can it be when the cabins contain two single beds, not one double?"

Molly giggled a bit as she replied, "I'd like to see statistics about how many of those single beds go unused, Sherlock. There's may be some advantages to such enforced closeness."

"I see no advantage to muscle aches and bruises, Molly"

"I suppose it would depend on how one got the bruises, Sherlock." Molly was surprising herself with her provocative chatter, even as her ears started to turn red.

After brunch the two returned to their cabin and settled in for the afternoon. The room was currently a small private lounge, with comfortable seating for two, a small table, and a sink. Sherlock settled in immediately, opening his laptop and going to work. Molly pulled a couple of medical journals from her case, choosing reading material. It wasn't long before she started to get restless.

"What's the matter, Molly? Not the way you thought you be spending your honeymoon trip?"

"No shit, Sherlock!"

"Well, I'm sure we can find something better to do, Dr. Hooper. What had you planned?" Sherlock asked innocently, or so she thought. But he was displaying a bit of a smirk across his handsome features.

"What the bloody hell do you think people do on their honeymoon? Work on laptops and read medical journals?"

"Sounds like an excellent plan to me."

"Which is one of the many reasons you are not married."

"Okay. All kidding aside, what do you suggest? What would you be doing if Meena were here?"

"Drinking pink champagne in the lounge car? Painting our toenails? Engaging in a little Tom-bashing?"

"You can drink champagne, I'll have Scotch. I'll paint your nails if I can choose the color. And I'm always amenable to some Tom bashing!"

When they made their way to the lounge, they were surprised to find it quite filled with obviously affectionate couples, newlyweds, old couples, and illicit romances alike. As they walked down the central aisle looking for seat, they could feel sets of eyes appraising them. Molly was becoming slightly embarrassed, as the absence of a wedding ring clearly labeled her as mistress, not wife. As she considered herself definitely not mistress material, the next choice was Sherlock as gigolo. She could see that, she sighed. Tall, lean, beautiful curls, chiselled cheekbones, eyes the color of the Mediterranean, and a mouth to die for. Definitely out of her league, she was sure everyone was thinking. Everyone had believed that Tom looked considerably like the detective, but he was merely a faded copy. As if all the same ingredients were there, but whoever had put him together had made a drastic mistake in the recipe.

They found a couple of comfy chairs by the window, with a small table between them, and ordered drinks.

"Do you get the feeling that people are studying us, Molly?"

"What's the matter, Sherlock? Don't like being on the receiving end of inquisitive glances?" Molly was trying to shrug off the same feeling. "It's just the train ride, Sherlock. There are certainly limited activities. People are just looking for something to do. They're deducing us."

"No they're not. They're making snap judgements based on limited observational skills, and those snap judgements are most likely to comply with their pre-determined ideas about our relationship."

"And what would those judgements be, Mr. Detective?"

"Well, we are sharing a cabin, so the obvious conclusion is that we are lovers, unmarried lovers, due to the lack of rings. We have not engaged in any public displays of affection, so we are probably a couple of long-standing, either extremely comfortable in the relationship, or on the verge of a long-coming breakup."

"There is another option, Sherlock."

"And that is?"

"I am a relatively successful, but quite reserved, mousey professional woman who is living out her fantasy by traveling on the most romantic train in the world with a paid escort." Molly laughed as she recounted this scenario. "And I need another glass of champagne!"

Sherlock signaled the waiter. "A gigolo, Molly. Don't be ridiculous. I've worked undercover posing as a gigolo, and believe me, you couldn't afford my services." Molly choked on her champagne before she noticed that her companion was smiling. "We should play a game," he continued. "Which ones do you think believe we are lovers, and which think we are client and employee?"

"Well, the redhead in the corner definitely looks like she's ready to make you an offer."

"Monetary or otherwise?"

"Both. Either. I'd watch out for her if you have to leave the cabin in the middle of the night, Sherlock." Molly was currently on her third champagne compared to Sherlock's one Scotch, and had begun to giggle as she scanned the faces in the lounge.

"Molly, I think it's about time we gave them something to talk about, don't you?" And before she could react, Sherlock leaned across the table to plant a rather long kiss on her lips. "That should keep the redhead at bay for a while!" Then he reached for her hand, tugged her to her feet, and continued, practically leering as he spoke, "Time to return to the cabin. I think I've decided on that nail polish color!"

Sherlock Holmes led her toward their cabin with an arms around her waist, occasionally dropping it to her bum for added emphasis. Molly leaned into him, asking, "What the hell are you doing, you git?"

"Just playing a game, Molly. Play along! I'm doing this for both of us. The gentleman, and I use the term very loosely, accompanying the redhead has been looking at you like you are the tastiest dessert on the menu. And I'd much rather play this little game than anything the two of them might have in mind? Wouldn't you?"

"You're not really going to paint my nails, are you?"

"I just might. Especially if you were using that as code for something else…"

"Behave, Sherlock. Besides, there are some people who believe that you have never painted a nail in your life!"

"I'll have you know, that while I have never done any professional nail painting, I am a dedicated and talented amateur!"

When they returned to the cabin, Molly realized that if they were going to be ready for an early seating at dinner, they had better begin to get ready. Or at least she had. Sherlock always seemed to look ready to face the world.

"You go ahead down to the lavatory, Molly. I can shave in here."

Molly snatched up her robe and slippers, and headed off down the hallway. When she returned, she found a clean shaven Sherlock Holmes, in a fresh shirt, ready and waiting for her.

"Sherlock, I have to change now."

"Go right ahead, Molly. I'm busy with my blog. I should be finished by the time you're dressed."

"Sherlock…"

"I won't look. Promise. Besides, it's nothing that I haven't seen before, Molly."

"Not this version, you haven't. Now leave!"

"But Molly…"

"Now!"

"Some honeymoon this is turning out to be!" Sherlock muttered as he left.

As Molly dressed she couldn't help but think about some of the more unusual things that had happened today. Sherlock had one or two borderline suggestive remarks. He had wrapped his arm protectively around her waist. He had even kissed her, and this time not on the cheek!

What was going on in his mind? What was going on in her mind? What was going on, period?

But this kind of pleasant confusion did not last long in Molly's mind because by dinner Sherlock Holmes was back to his old self. The meal started out pleasantly enough, but after a moment or two, it seemed like a switch had been flipped in Sherlock's head. The bantering, the teasing, the borderline flirting ceased abruptly. Suddenly her dinner selection was wanting, her choice of wine inappropriate, and evidently her dessert childishly unsophisticated. Molly wasn't sure, but she believed he picked an irrational argument with their waiter, in Italian, no less. If the constrained nastiness in his voice wasn't a dead giveaway, the look of sympathy the poor man gave her as he poured her inappropriate wine was enough to tell her that her companion was behaving abominably. Or normally, for Sherlock.

After dinner, as it was still quite early, Molly quietly suggested they return to the lounge for a nightcap.

"Are you hoping your rather crude admirer is still there, Molly?"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"I'm sure he would be more than happy to provide you with so more honeymoon-like activities than I would!"

Molly sighed heavily, "This was a mistake, wasn't it? I should have insisted Meena come, and just covered her expenses."

"Perhaps that would have been a better idea, yes," Sherlock agreed, much to her dismay. "But not to worry. You'll soon be rid of me. I have received a text from Lestrade. My assistance is urgently needed back in London. I will fly back from Venice as soon as we arrive."

"But Sherlock, we are booked in Venice for a week, before returning by train. You told me you knew Venice, and would show me around…"

"They have guides for that sort of thing, Molly. You'll be fine. Don't be so overly dramatic!"

Molly hadn't really believed anything could have made her "honeymoon" worse than cancelling her wedding. But she was wrong. Her once carefree trip to lift her spirits and celebrate her independence was now becoming a nightmare. When they arrived at their cabin, Sherlock immediately removed his suit jacket, opened his laptop, and continued to work. Molly gathered her nightclothes and headed to the lavatory to change.

When she returned, Sherlock was still sitting on the bottom bunk, using the small table next to the bed as a desk.

"Shall I take the top, then?" Molly asked, hating to interrupt him. She needn't have worried, because he didn't deign to answer her.

But he must have noticed her, because as she approached to climb the small ladder in her baggy sweat pants and oversized tee shirt, he just had to remark, "If that is your idea of honeymoon attire, it is no wonder "meat dagger" did a bunk!"

"Tom did not do a bunk. I did, as you well know, you arrogant prat! And had I been dressing for a man who was remotely interested in me, this wouldn't have been my choice. Perhaps you were hoping for something else, Sherlock. You were flirting enough earlier."

"Me? Flirting? Don't flatter yourself! You are an excellent pathologist, Dr. Hooper, but hardly my type…"

"And what, precisely, is your type, Mr. Holmes. A lesbian dominatrix? Perhaps a flashy redhead? I hadn't realized you had a type!"

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and then he stared at her for what seemed like forever, as if thinking something over, and not for the first time. He then rose from the bed, closed his laptop, and taking his jacket, left the cabin without a word.

Molly knew, in the back of her mind, that this trip was a bad idea. She and Sherlock got along fine, just not at close quarters, and not for extended periods of time. They were friends, she believed, but his rather mercurial nature made it difficult to really get close to him. As much as she loved him, and she did, indeed, love him, there were times when she couldn't stand to be around him. This was shaping up to be one of those times. And still, for some insane reason, she had chosen those brief times of easy friendship over a lifetime with a man who loved her.

What Molly couldn't understand was why he had volunteered to accompany her. She hadn't poked and prodded at him. She hadn't begged him. Hell, it had never even occurred to her to ask him! He had volunteered, for god's sake! And she, being a complete idiot, had agreed. How could she not? A romantic train to a romantic city with the man she loved. She might have known it would turn out this way. Fairy tales don't come true. Her name was Molly, not Cinderella. And Sherlock Holmes was no Prince Charming. He wasn't even Prince Tolerable! The only good thing to come out of the whole affair was that she was now able to take the lower bunk!

She was so miserable she couldn't even cry. All she could do was just lie there, depressed and miserable, staring up at the top bunk which hovered over her head. It seemed like hours before she felt herself dozing off, and Sherlock Holmes had not returned. Perhaps he had been so unhappy about spending the night in the same room with her that he had jumped off the train. Molly pictured him making a rough landing, then rolling down a rather steep embankment to land in a frigid stream below. She didn't want him dead. Just suffering. And bruised. And preferably cold and wet!

Molly was lying there in the dark when Sherlock returned, moving very quietly as to not awaken her. The last thing he wanted to do was face his pathologist and be forced to explain himself, because he wasn't entirely sure that he could. One minute he was teasing her, and, yes, even flirting with her. The next he was distancing himself the only way he could, by hurting her. And he hated himself for it. He had set off to accompany her on this trip with the best of intentions. Or the worst, depending on your point of view. But she frightened him. Her vast capacity to love him and forgive him almost anything scared the hell out of him. Sometimes he thought that he treated her badly just to see how far she would go to forgive him. Other times he knew that he did it because he was afraid of losing. His brother had drilled into him that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. If that were true, he was definitely losing. But where did this leave sentimental Molly? Was she losing, too? The confusion was definitely affecting his thinking. And if they were both losing, why not go down in a blaze of glory, enjoying the ride all the way down?

The room was quiet when he entered. Sherlock closed the door immediately so the light from the hall wouldn't awaken her. He moved slowly, feeling his way toward the bottom bunk, finally standing beside the bed, face turned away. He was not ready to sleep, his mind still reeling from his conflicting desires. So, instead of easing himself gently down onto the mattress, he plopped himself down into a sitting position.

His arse made contact with an unexpected object, said object being Molly's midsection, immediately knocking the wind out of her. He fell slightly backward, before leaping off her, thus knocking his head soundly on the overhead bunk. Molly, gasping for air, and totally disoriented from being awakened in such an abrupt manner, also attempted to leap from the bunk, and also made contact with the low-hanging overhead.

When all the bumping and gasping had ended, Sherlock was sitting on the floor, back against the lower bunk, and Molly was hanging, head first, over same. Sherlock was the first to speak, as his Molly was still trying to breath. "Are you alright, Molly? Speak!"

But Molly couldn't speak, so she punched him in the chest.

"You seem to be recovering nicely, Dr. Hooper."

Molly now glared daggers at him, as he said, smirking, "Do you need mouth to mouth resuscitation, Molly?"

Ah, the bastard's back to flirting now, is he? She decided to call his bluff by whispering, "Yes!"

Sherlock decided that that was all the encouragement he needed as he pulled her off the bed and into his arms, kissing her passionately until it became apparent that she was once again having trouble breathing.

Molly, at last, found her voice again. "What the hell is going on with you, Sherlock? You've been acting…"

"Like a real bastard. Yes. I know. I was trying to flirt, but I didn't seem to be getting anywhere. I'm not good at this, I've told you that before…"

"You must have been some awful undercover gigolo, mate, if you can't flirt properly!"

"Gigolos don't have to flirt, Molly. They know it's already a done deal, no seduction required…"

"Sherlock, you never actually…"

"No, of course not!"

"Are you lying to me?"

"Maybe!"

"Sherlock Holmes, how could you…"

"Jealous?" Sherlock Holmes actually winked. Playfully, at that.

"Well, at least tell me how much you charged. Or pretended to charge."

"You couldn't afford me, Molly. But I'm perfectly willing to give you a substantial discount!"

"Are you flirting now, Sherlock?"

"I thought we were well past the flirting stage, and heading into the seduction phase..."

"Oh, good," Molly said as she moved in for another snogging session, but was taken aback when Sherlock moaned, not in pleasure, but in pain. "Problem, love?"

"I think I hurt my back a bit when I fell off the bunk," he groaned again.

Molly then examined his head, where a small bruise was forming. One that evidently matched the one on her own.

"I thought you said it would be fun earning some bruises and aches in a single bunk on a romantic train ride," Sherlock rolled his eyes and snickered again.

"Well, as it seems we've suffered the consequences, we may as well enjoy ourselves," Molly smiled as she happily wrapped herself around the love of her life.

"Molly, don't take this the wrong way, but those are possibly the ugliest pajamas I have ever seen. It's a good thing you won't be wearing them for long!"

"I think you'll like the ones I planned on wearing in Venice a lot better, Sherlock. It seems I underestimated myself. I really believed it would take me a bit longer to get you to this point."

"Molly, I wouldn't get too smug if I were you. After all, it's taken you almost seven years."

"Yes. Let's hope you were worth the wait!"

And Sherlock Holmes proved that, indeed, he was.


End file.
